


Like Real People Do

by TheSouthernFalconer



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Experimental Style, F/M, First Time, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, Making Out, Memories, Mercenary Lucio (The Arcana), Non-Linear Narrative, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Pillow Talk, Post-Canon, Post-Coital Cuddling, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26031145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSouthernFalconer/pseuds/TheSouthernFalconer
Summary: He was a long way from what used to be home. “Feel better?” she asked again.He couldn’t say why, but his eyes and throat itched and burnt like he was going to cry. Nothing was broken, nothing hurt, there were no strings to pull here with his tears any more, and the blood on his clothes were not his own, but he wanted to cry.
Relationships: Apprentice/Lucio (The Arcana), Lucio (The Arcana)/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 29





	Like Real People Do

“Tell me a story,” said Sybilla. It was snowing outside- it was the coldest winter this city had had since they had moved here. Longer, likely, if the way her customers fussed and fretted and complained was anything at all to go by. Lucio’s hatred of it was fuelled with even more vitriol- he could barely stand the sight of it- he’d drawn the curtains shut from the moment he could tell it was coming. She moved closer to him under the heavy blankets, savouring the fire’s warmth and the feel of his sweaty skin under the palms. “Are you asleep?” She lightly ran her nails over the fresh hickeys running down his chest. Silver eyes fluttered open, and he gave her a lazy smile. Earlier, it’d been hard pressed to see him smile on a snowy day. Sybilla tucked that prize away in the back of her mind. “Lillie,” his voice was hoarse. Then he cleared his throat. “No, I wasn’t sleeping.” He tucked a wild strand of her loose silver hair behind her ears, and pulled her against him, his cool golden palm raising gooseflesh over her shoulders and back. “Then tell me a story.” She demanded again. “If you aren’t going to sleep, I don’t want you to get all up in your head.”

He scoffed. “When _you’re_ here? Looking cute and gorgeous? Never.”

Sybilla rolled her eyes, then frowned, loosely twirling a strand of golden hair around her ringed finger. “What is it today?” she asked gently. “ You always jump at the chance to show off.” She laid her palm on his cheek, running a thumb over his still damp lips. She felt his sharp intake of breath. “Sunshine?”

“I’m-“ he let out a shaky sigh. “I’ll tell you a story.”

The knot of worry eased in her chest, and Sybilla felt herself smile. They snuggled closer, giggling as his golden hand came up to pull the blankets over their heads, only leaving just enough room to breathe. She could smell the sweet rose-and-almond of his shampoo, pick out the tiny, all-but-faded scar just above his cheekbone. He’d wiped his ruined eyeliner off, and there was only the lightest sheen of evaporating moisturizer over his face. He pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, smiling mischievously as he picked up a crumb of chocolate there. She sighed contently, resting her head against his chest, feeling her body go liquid and pliant as his hands brushed through her hair.

“I’ve-“ his voice was soft, and the undercurrent of uncertainty in it made her heart stutter. “I’ve never really told anyone about this.”

_Oh._

She was no stranger to these heart to hearts, especially now that they came more frequently. A dip in temperature always knocked the memories loose, for both of them- and for him, so used to papering over the harsher ones with gilded narratives, half-baked justifications and frantic overcompensation, the experience was always an exercise of pulling teeth. In all honesty, she should have expected it.

Well, she wasn’t about to let him do it alone.

She took a deep breath, laying a kiss against his collarbone. “I’m listening, sunshine.” A long moment of silence, when Sybilla wondered if he’d decided against it, and then a shiver ran through him, as he began to speak.

“The first company I’d worked for, right after I- left the South- was ragged little bunch- barely a company at all. I caught them when they were working for Lykkagrete- some border spat over the Jasper bay, who the hell knows- scaring off petty Chieftains.” Lucio shifted slightly, tangling their legs together and tucking his chin over her head. “I met someone there-“ he said the next words in their native tongue- “she was the leader’s right hand woman- you’d call her a lieutenant, if it were really-“ he inhaled, too quick, and breathed the name out like a long held secret. “Thanji.”

 _“He’d bring good coin.” The Captain was a person of sparse words, but Thanji circled Montag, appraising him with careful eyes. She couldn’t have been a lot older than him, though she was bigger, with short hair the color of wild moss, and wide, flaming amber eyes. He’d never asked her where she was from. It couldn’t have been farther than the Steppe, or maybe even further South- from the riders of Naigenkyst or Jasilon- a hunter tribe just like his own. Or the one that_ used to be _his own. Thanji thumbed at his warpaint- calloused hands gentler than he’d expected- far, far too harmless for him to trust (But welcome, more welcome than he’d liked to admit- the feeling of something on his skin that didn’t want to tear him apart). He’d been ragged and hungry and cold- feral like a beast, parched for blood. She had him figured out in a second. “A Scourgeling, this far from their lair?” Her scarred mouth curved into something resembling a smile. Montag’s hands tightened on the grip of his axe. “I say we keep him.” Be a man, don’t sag with relief. Be a man. You’re not a kid anymore, Montag. He shot a silver gaze at the Captain, standing next to their tent with folded arms. They were built like a rock, too sharp and cold for him to be topple them now, the way he was. If he bided his time long enough to pocket that sweet, sweet Lykkan gold- well. He was too good to be someone’s underling. But for now-_

_They nodded, and Thanji made a sound of satisfaction, shaking sweat damp hair out of her face, and that was that._

_They’d tasked Montag with menial, unpleasant tasks- the night’s longest watch, rubbing out the soreness from the Captain’s dirty feet, shoving the stupider ones inside to where they won’t die of a frostbite if they’d drunk-stumbled too far, cleaning out meat and tossing it over the fire only to be spared the smallest scraps. He knew better than to try to wheedle out of these chores- but he kept score, nevertheless, biding his time till he can make them pay._

_Besides, he didn’t mind the night watches quite as much as he used to. He found he couldn’t sleep, not unless he’d had enough of the fiery berry brew the mercenaries passed around in a wooden flask by the fire. And even when he did get tired enough drift off, he’d leap awake before he was rested, startled from nightmares of beetles and blood, scanning his surroundings frantically, looking over his shoulder every few minutes for a glimpse of a spotted pelt._

_I hate you, Mama._

_He found Thanji perched on a rock as he poked and prodded at the fire to keep it alive. He could hear the metal hiss of her sharpening her scythe. When he caught her eye, she grinned, and jumped down from the rock to sit next to him. “What was your name again, kid?” The accent too, he couldn’t place. “Montag.” He bit his lip to stop the “son of” from tumbling out, a twinge of pain that turned into anger, like snow puffing to vapor under scalding water. “And I’m not a fucking kid,” he spat, quick and harsh, and then he tried not to flinch away from the scythe. She only snorted, amicably enough, and kept smoothing over the blade with the whetstone. “Right.” A throaty chuckle, and another look- less appraising and more curious. “Montag.” The name sounded alien in her voice- the vowels dragged out too far. “Tragic. Who the hell named you that?” His hand instinctively flew to the hilt of his sword, remembering a few beats too slow that he’d hated the name himself. A strong arm gripped his shoulder, and Thanji held him in place before he shook her off. “My Mama did.” He griped, sitting back._

_“Yeah?” Another uncomfortably knowing glance. “Screw her.”_

_Montag felt a breath leave his body like it had been sitting there, right behind his chest- behind the spectacular, boot-shaped bruise over his heart- for weeks. Unconsciously, he sidled a little closer to the woman (girl?) beside him. If Thanji noticed, she didn’t comment on it. “Yeah,” he huffed out a quivering laugh, unused to hearing anyone speak of Mama with anything other than fear and reverence. “Yeah, that.”_

_Thanji was a formidable fighter. Her scythe disarmed the tougher riders by the bay in a matter of seconds, tore through the mouth of mournful monsters before they could bare their teeth to curse her, and when they sparred, Montag quickly learnt that there was something familiar in the desperation with which she pushed back and tackled him to the ground, something compelling in the flash of those white teeth and the way her toughened skin crinkled when she smiled. When he did manage to win, brute force and liquid rage matching her scythe with his sword and finally, finally managing to waver her enough to knock her down, laughing all the way, she jumped to her feet at once, a gloved fist thumping his back._

_“Good fight,” she said, looking for all the world as if she hadn’t just lost. It irked him that he couldn’t gloat, not when she’d conceded so quickly. But the sincerity in her voice washed the hostility away, his long-suffering pride grasping at straws, trying to stand on shaky feet with every look of veiled terror the other mercenaries gave him when he returned to camp, wiping the blood from his mouth and his weapons, grinning from ear to ear with the battle singing in his veins. There wasn’t any terror in those amber eyes- but something else- a look he’d only come to see a precious little for most of his life._

_Later, far, far later, an apocalypse and several milestones of personal growth later, he’d come to call it respect. Acknowledgement that didn’t grow out of the cesspool of fear._

_But just then, he swaggered, grinning cockily the way Mama hates. “I know.”_

_It was the winter’s end- and the snow was slowly melting. They still had a few weeks left in Lykkagrete’s employment. Montag was getting more jittery than usual- he couldn’t wait till gold changed hands. He wondered how far Thanji’s loyalty to the Captain extended. Not very much- he imagined. When he proved himself, she’d know she could side with him. “What are you so mad about?” she asked one day, as they wiped the grime off their bodies by the shock-cold stream. He splashed at her playfully, giving her a winsome smile. “Mad? When I’m winning?” She butted her shoulders against his, knocking him off his feet. She watched dried blood wash off her hands in a swirl of red. “You kick them when they’re fallen.” She said carefully. “Even when they’re dead.” Then she got to her feet, shaking water off her limbs. Then she bent down to ruffle his hair. “Like they’re all someone you’re mad at.” Montag laced up his boots, suddenly feeling naked. “Well, they are.” He snarked. “They’re tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me. So.” He buried his hands in his pockets and stalked off. She jogged a little to catch up with him- “Montag-“ she threw a loose arm around his shoulder, the scar over her lip suddenly inches from his face. The back of his neck prickled. When he met her eyes, he felt her breath catch. “Wanna go for a run?”_

_His limbs were a little less wound up when they returned, the electric buzz under his skin settled a little. They’d found a few rabbits- lying bloody now over Montag’s shoulders. It was- nice, he decided. It’d been a while since he’d run, just for the sake of it- with nothing (hopefully) chasing him, and with nothing to hunt (though he couldn’t resist anyway). Thanji’s scarf was loaded with cloudberries. The rest of the camp whooped and cheered when she set it down. “Feel better?” She asked, later. They were pressing the berries into a bucket, sneaking one or several into their mouths. “Here,” she showed him how to press them to a pulp between his palms- the berry crackled with a satisfying pop. The tangy burn rushed to his head – he couldn’t stifle the giggle that spilled out of his mouth. Thanji threw her head back, and laughed. “Never made cloudberry liquor back at the Scourgelands?” she asked, cocking her head. “No,” he admitted. The fruit felt good when it broke in his hands- it was a different kind of breaking – not a skull against his pommel or a tough nut between his teeth- not even the soft tear of campfire roasted meat or the chewy, scant fruit of the tundra. It was smoother, easier, yielding without a fight but without cowering, either._

_He was a long way from what used to be home. “Feel better?” she asked again._

_He couldn’t say why, but his eyes and throat itched and burnt like he was going to cry. Nothing was broken, nothing hurt, there were no strings to pull here with his tears any more, and the blood on his clothes were not his own, but he wanted to cry._

_Thanji leaned in to wipe a smear of berry pulp off the corner of his lips. He felt his skin tingle, and his heart kick. She licked the red off her fingertip. “Nice.” She said, though her eyes were fixed on him._

_He’d learnt all their songs- mismatched jumbles in many languages- he couldn’t tell where most of them were from, save for the Captain, who was an exile from further North, a city he couldn’t pronounce the name of- a monastery by the sea. They drank till they dropped half dead, still with one eye open, darting up like a snake to the quiver of a leaf. These battles were no raids- but they were no wars, either- petty skirmishes over a sliver of the bay or a crop of land where something grows. None of them were too keen on the details, only that they paid in drink, tents and clothes ‘til the contracts were up. It was warmer than usual when they broke out the cloudberry, almost pungent in its intensity. He tried to match his voice with Thanji’s- she sang loud and booming, and someone snickered behind them, warbling along. He couldn’t say when he started or when she stopped, but between the fire and the tent, she said- “Screw the South,” and he nodded vigorously. “Screw them all!” he shouted. They stumbled back to the fire, they raised a toast with the brew- “From the Scourgelands to the Great Gates- To getting the hell away!,” and the mercenaries erupted in a hearty cheer._

_“Someday they’ll have us in Prakra,” an old man, an archer with a punctured gait and a dead-set aim declared. The Captain scoffed. “There’s nothing the fuck to see in there.”_

_“Where d’you wanna go, Thanji?” he asked her._

_She rubbed her palms together, and made a sound of disgust. “Anything’s better than this dump.” She spat on the ground, kicking it like it had hit her. “What’re you mad at?” he slurred back to her. “Stupid snow. Stupid fucking hungry snow.” In the firelight, her hazy amber eyes were pools of oil. Beneath the flimsy armor, her body was broad and muscled. He felt her lean against him, and shift a little. He wound an arm around her- was this how it worked? To touch- not to hurt, not to fight, but to touch? Another pang of heartache- another face flashing before his eyes- bone-pale with light green eyes. He rubbed the knots out of Thanji’s shoulders, felt her smile a little with her eyes still closed. He felt a little like he did when the cloudberry cracked in his hands, and when she’d touched his warpaint that first day. Fear tugged him back and he scanned the woods again. No sight of a spotted pelt, he heaved in relief. Then he held her a little closer, and she mumbled in a language he couldn’t decipher. Not to hurt, but to touch. He could feel the deep scars over her knuckles and her palms. He wanted to run his fingers and lips over them. She was fast asleep now. It was warm. He couldn’t imagine anything warmer. Maybe it was warmer there, in the middle of the fire, but nowhere else._

_Stupid snow. Stupid fucking hungry snow. He couldn’t wait to get out._

_It took another few days, and the company was drinking again. There weren’t many days left for the contract to run out. Montag sharpened his axe and his sword every night, watching the Captain like a hawk. That night, they seemed in slightly higher spirits. There was life in their eyes, likely the glint of gold. “You look like you’re in it for the kill, Montag.” They guffawed. He felt the camp’s wary eyes rest on him. He beamed with pride at their uneasiness, but felt a little empty when they inched away from him. “Montag,” Thanji’s voice was a whisper in his ear, her blunt nails barely grazing the top of his thigh. A feather-light kiss pressed to the crook of his neck, and she was gone. Montag stood up, smirking at the lewd gestures from his companions with a smirk with a confidence he didn’t have. He followed her to where she’d left the tent half open, and drew it shut behind him with shaking hands. Hail Vlaganog, don’t let her see through me. A wince, remembering he wasn’t allowed to call upon Vlaganog anymore. Thanji smiled at him from where she was sitting up on the furs, her eyes crinkling. He gulped, but walked towards her resolutely. “Don’t do this often, Monty?” Her voice was a gravelly purr as her fingers skated up his collar to grip the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. “Don’t call me that,” he snapped, but he didn’t, couldn’t, pull away. She must have caught the flash in his eyes because she didn’t press, didn’t tease, only hummed an apology before pulling him into a kiss._

_She tasted like the liquor did, and just about as heady. Montag chased her as though he knew what he was doing- uncomfortably shy, and masking it by burying his fingers into deep-green hair and digging his nails into her skin, growing more confident when she made a noise that sounded like encouragement. “You’re not too drunk, are you?” She asked, panting. “Don’t want you to-“ He shook his head and let her pull him down to the fur, hovering over him like they’d just been sparring, catching her lip between her teeth. His blood spiked and burnt and his nerves sang at the look in her eyes-at the bright flush high on her cheeks. He didn’t mind feeling small and pretty when he’s caged like this, he realized, between two strong arms that wanted more to do than crush and break him. He shivered, and she sank down again, smiling into his mouth when she felt him gasp and sweat._

_In the candlelight, he traced the scars on her body with curious hands and an obedient mouth- listening to her murmur instructions, an electric shock of pride when he got it right, or better than right, an addictive thrill to do more, again and again and again. “You’re beautiful.” She growled, sliding her hands down his chest. “Pretty, pretty-“ teeth at his neck, at his collarbones, down the column of his throat- “so handsome I could eat you up.”_

_Then do it, he wanted to say,but he couldn’t find his voice before she kissed him again._

_It wasn’t stunning, not earth-bending or sky-shattering. Hail Vlaganog, it was only human. Clothes and bodies catching in crevices mid-darkness, a hand over his mouth before he could get too loud. He wasn’t shy, but desperate to please, desperate to not let on how much guidance he needed, but he got it anyway- and in a few tries he seemed to get things more right than wrong. She cursed in a language he didn’t know, would never know, running her nails down his back. Only under her breath, never loud enough to make it to her voice, except once or twice, and he wore those sounds on his skin like a badge of honor._

_It wasn’t heaven, it wasn’t hell, but a body was a steady thing to hold on to in the night, like the puppy pile of the tribe at night but different, because she wasn’t holding him so she won’t freeze to death, she was holding him because she wanted him. He decided he liked it, and he knew she did too. It felt good to have someone happy with something he did, and his name didn’t sound so ugly when it wasn’t growled but gasped out the way she did._

_They lay side by side, later, tangled in the furs. “Don’t have a lot of scars, do you?” she mused. “Older ones. Looks like you’ve been sheltered, for a Scourgeling.”_

_“Or maybe I’m just that fuckin’ good.” He bit back, suddenly feeling brittle and sharp._

_Anger seared through him, white-hot and lightning quick._

_“Maybe I’m just-“_

_“Shh.” She put a finger over kiss-reddened lips, looking contrite again, her hands stilling. Then with her other hand, he touched that still-unfaded bruise over his heart, frowning. “Taken a beating here though- where from?”_

_He didn’t want to say her name when he was naked and unarmed and basking in the pleasant soreness. “Don’t care. Just-“_

_Thanji’s face softened, but there were no more questions. He didn’t sleep well that night, and neither did she, but he felt a little more rested all the same._

_The camp noticed the swing in his step and the flourish to his swagger the next day. “Don’t call it out.” Someone grumbled. “He’s enough of an arrogant prick as he is.”_

_The last time he saw Thanji, she was skinning a fresh rabbit with her dagger. With her eyes on the animal and the feeble Southern sun lighting up her face and her big body, scars and all, Montag thought she was beautiful. When she nicked her finger on the dagger, she licked the blood off her finger, unbothered, but bizzarely, Montag winced._

“I didn’t see it when she died,” said Lucio, burying his fingers into Sybilla’s hair, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond her. “Don’t really remember- that skirmish was tough, and in the evening, they brought back the blade of her scythe, and that was it.”

Sybilla swallowed. “Lucio-“

He let her go, and rolled on to his back. She scooted closer, throwing an arm around his stomach, lightly tracing the deep, deep scar that ran right above it.

“She was tough as nails,” he said. “I mean,” he turned to meet her eyes with a shaky smile. “It wasn’t like we’ve never seen death before, right?” She nodded. Death was the order of the day, back in the Scourgelands. Dealing it, enduring it, seeing it- hoping to outlive it, day by day, and night by night. She remembered what Ana looked like when she died- a gaping emptiness sitting in her bones as she sewed her form into the tribe’s tapestry. A tug of war between grief and uncertainty, neither of which she had the time or energy for at the time.

“I’ve killed before that,” he went on, “and I’ve killed after that. But-“

A reminder. A small, cruel, painful reminder that death would always follow him, a whisper of fear instead of victory, when someone he’d touched had been lost, that he’d take it with him, would have it if he ever wanted to set it down. The demon’s whisper in his ear- “it will follow you, wherever you go.” A push past the point of atonement, a promise that there is noone to protect him, not anymore, not him nor anything he’d ever wanted protected. The cold dagger of fear, lodged always in his heart, pressing that much deeper, turning into ice what once was warm.

“But I felt something, here,” he touched his golden palm over his heart. “Here, like it shouldn’t have happened.” Sybilla looked up to meet anguished silver eyes. “And maybe-“

He didn’t finish the thought, but she knew it anyway.

_Maybe I could’ve let it change me. Maybe I could’ve learnt right from wrong. Maybe I could’ve let it make me wiser and braver, instead of crueler, and more afraid. Maybe I could’ve woken up, every time guilt and pain and conscience had tapped and hammered at my soul, instead of hurting back to prove a point._

“Sunshine,” she sighed. There was nothing to say to that. No way to counter the thought that wouldn’t have been a lie. There was a soft shine of pride too, in knowing he wasn’t waiting on it anyway.

“Found a company that promised more gold, past Lykkagrete,” he said, “Took a lot more than my share when I left, from those losers. I didn’t even have to take on the Captain in the end.” He sounded disappointed, the ghost of a smirk crossing his lips- “Keep that a secret though, I’ve always told everyone that I killed the first leader I worked under and took over the company.”

She giggled, despite herself, shaking her head. “I make no promises.”

“No?” He rolled to his side with wide eyes, grabby hands coming to tickle her sides- “ _No??”_

Sybilla squealed like a girl, trying desperately to untangle herself from the sheets, and the attack. “No, no, I’m not supposed to-“ another breathless laugh- “encourage your- _ow,_ Lucio, self-aggrandizing-“

She leaned in and kissed him, long and deep, laughing when she felt his hands wrap around her waist. He sighed against her lips, going limp and all but melting into a puddle on the sheets. When they parted, she brushed damp golden hair off his forehead, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of his nose. “Drink?” she asked, already reaching over to the bedside table for the bottle of whiskey, pouring a little into two clear crystal glasses. Lucio sat up, back against the headboard. They clinked their glasses together, and he reached up to unclasp and unbuckle his golden arm with a little wince, a sizzle of heat rising from the alchemical metal as he put it aside and rubbed his shoulders.

“Sunshine,” she said, burying her toes between his feet beneath the blankets. “Thank you for telling me.”

Lucio looked at her, surprised. “I-“ his lips puckered up into the confused pout that never really grows old, then melting into an uncertain, but genuine smile. “Uh, you’re welcome, I guess? Yeah,” he smiled wider, “I like telling you things. It makes me feel better. And uh-“ He took a long sip of the whiskey, considering.

“It’s just, strange that I got here, all this way, and she didn’t.” he said slowly. “Shouldn’t have been that way. Not that I don’t want to be here, mind you-“ he added hastily, as though she could ever have doubted it. “But Thanji looked like she’d fought her whole life. I just wish it didn’t have to be like that.” He nodded, almost as though to himself. “Yeah, I think. I wish it didn’t have to be like that. And it reminded me of, you know.”

He was silent for a while, and she thought he didn’t need to be pressed anymore. But then he went on, pursuing the thought anyway. “It reminded me that I was living on borrowed time.” A chill ran down Sybilla’s spine, old ghosts rising up to prickle at her skin.

“You’re not,” she said firmly, laying her hand on his shoulder. “Lucio, you’re _not._ ”

“No,” he agreed, his eyes seeking hers with a tired, relieved smile. “Not anymore.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s weird, isn’t it, Lillie? I thought I’d live forever, but only ever on borrowed time.”

“I know,” she said, downing her whiskey in a quick gulp, savouring the burn. “I’m happy you’re here,” she said. “That our time is ours, and that I get to have it with you.”

_And I wish she had the chance to have it too. This friend of yours- this woman who would only ever be a tale to me. And others, the ones who didn’t outlive the endless fury of war- the old tribe, the older villages, ravaged by raids and famine- everything we knew in the South that had crumbled to dust and snow with noone who wanted to remember any of it._

“You’re not living on borrowed time, Lucio,” she said again. “It’s over now. It is.”

She topped up his glass for him, saw him shoot a glance past the window as though he could see the still-falling snow behind the curtains. He shook his head, then put his glass aside and hugged her close. “I love you,” he said, in the Scourge’s tongue.

“I know. I love you too”

“I’d protect you, from anything.”

“You would. And so would I.”

“And I’m-“ his breathing was laboured- “I’m not the same man I was back then.”

“No.” She promised him, “No, no you aren’t. Neither of us are the same.”

And then her heart sank. “You- aren’t blaming yourself for what happened to her, are you?”

She nudged him when he didn’t answer. “Sunshine, if that’s-“

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not.”

The tension seeped out of her, and she let her eyes fall shut. “Alright,” she whispered.

“Everyone deserved better,” he whispered into her hair. “And I’m trying.”

“I know, sunshine,” she said fiercely, pulling away to meet his eyes, pouring into her gaze every ounce of sincerity she could, if only to match his own. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hozier's "Like Real People Do", of course.


End file.
